


He that never had sorrow of love, never had joy of it either

by merle_p



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Future Fic, Jealousy, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-20
Updated: 2009-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Merlin misses being Arthur's manservant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He that never had sorrow of love, never had joy of it either

**Author's Note:**

> Written May 2009.  
> _Merlin_ belongs to BBC. The title is a (translated) quote from the medieval romance _Tristan_ by Gottfried von Strassburg.  
> This was written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/profile)[**kinkme_merlin**](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/) meme. The prompt was _Arthur/Merlin, when Arthur is king he makes Merlin court magician and he gets a new manservant. The manservant has a crush on Arthur and Merlin gets jealous. He decides to stake his claim by leaving marks on Arthur's body as a way of warning the new manservant not to mess with what belongs to him._

It's not that Merlin _misses_ being Arthur's manservant. Being the court sorcerer definitely has got its merits: For once, the payment is so much better – of course, that doesn't say much, considering that he didn't get paid at all before (and he really has to ask Arthur about that one day). But he's finally got his own rooms, which are nice and clean and simply a lot of space for someone who used to live in a small chamber next to the court physician's quarters for years; and it certainly doesn't hurt that he doesn't have to take anybody's orders anymore either – except for Arthur's, and it's not as if he followed those very often before.

So, no: Merlin doesn't miss being Arthur's servant at all.

Except that he does.

Of course, it's not necessarily mucking out the stables he misses, or having to carry around the equipment on endless, miserable hunting trips, and it's most definitely not the stocks.

But tending to Arthur's armour, polishing the metal so that it gleams in the sun when Arthur steps into the ring, making sure that everything is in place, protecting Arthur from any possible injury – that's one of the things he knows he wouldn't mind still doing. He misses bathing Arthur, lathering his tired body, rubbing the tension out of his muscles after a fight; or helping him dress, preparing him for a long day at court.

Most of all, he simply misses being around him all the time. It's not as if they never _see_ each other, but there's just so much to do these days – the kingdom needs to be ruled, after all – and sometimes, Merlin wishes himself back to the days when it was just the two of them; when he was always there, was expected to, in case Arthur needed anything at all – because at some point, even if he'd never admit it out loud, serving Arthur (which is something else entirely than _obeying_ him) had become, plain and simple, the purpose of his existence.

However, Arthur has got someone else to do these things for him now. And quite well, actually. Arthur's new squire, Roland, is of noble birth, the third son of an exiled Frankish laird; well-mannered, educated and handsome, and Merlin can't help but dislike him.

It doesn't help that Roland obviously is quite smitten with his master: standing just a bit too close, gazing longingly across the dinner table, and always quick to tell Arthur what he wants to hear – in French, no less. "Votre Majesté", Roland says, and "Arth_ur_", pursing his lips on the "u" as if he wants to kiss. It's rather disgusting, Merlin decides, and doesn't feel guilty when he sends Roland on yet another wild goose chase across the castle.

Unfortunately, to hope that Arthur wouldn't notice his dislike is apparently asking too much: He does notice, and he most definitely doesn't approve.

"_Merlin_", he says reproachfully, after Roland has complained about the strange noises in his chamber the third morning in a row, "stop torturing my squire."

Merlin wrinkles his nose and keeps stirring the tincture he's working on. _Torture_ is such a strong word for what he's been doing.

"Really", Arthur continues, "what's going on with you? He didn't do anything to you."

"He's in love with you", Merlin grumbles, pointedly not looking at Arthur at all. The concoction needs his full attention, after all.

Arthur laughs. "Don't be silly, Merlin", he says. "He's not in love with me."

Arthur has got this strange notion that people can't possibly be in love with him, now that he's king; just like he thought that _everyone_ was a bit in love with him when he was a prince. Merlin has wondered before if maybe he should point out the flaws in his logic – but it's not as if he _wants_ Arthur to realize just how many people at court are besotted with their king, so he keeps quiet. Roland, however, is a horse of a different colour.

"He is, too", he says, and doesn't care if he sounds like a whiny toddler. "He _looks_ at you."

"Well", Arthur says. "I would hope so, seeing as it is part of his job. It's probably why he always knows what I want right away, without me having to tell him twice – unlike certain other menservants I remember."

"Believe me", Merlin pouts. "He doesn't look at you like he's trying to figure out what you would like to have for lunch. He looks at you like he wants to eat you for lunch himself."

Arthur stares at him, amusement and disbelief showing on his face. "Merlin, are you _jealous_?"

"I'm not jealous" Merlin protests. "I'm just pointing out that your squire is quite obviously besotted with you. Everyone knows that he's in love with you. You seem to be the only one who can't see it."

"Really", Arthur snaps, and Merlin remembers too late that Arthur doesn't particularly like being called stupid. "And what would _you_ know about it?"

Merlin stares, incredulously. After all, if anybody knows what being in love with Arthur looks like, it's him – and he would have thought that Arthur knew that as well; that he had realized why Merlin, who never follows an order without protest, comes to his bed whenever he calls, and often when he doesn't.

"Right", he says stiffly, addressing the pot he is stirring. "What would I know about love? I'm a sorcerer, after all."

Arthur inhales sharply. "Merlin", he says, sounding stricken. "That's not – that's not what I meant."

Merlin doesn't look up from his work. "Really?" he says. "So it's not because I'm magic, but because I'm not of noble blood?"

"Merlin", Arthur says, and reaches out to touch. "Come on, you know that I didn't –"

Merlin feels Arthur's hand on his neck, and he wants to lean into it – it's been days since they really touched – but he can't give in so easily.

"No, you are right", he says, stepping away from Arthur's fingers. "You know, maybe you should go and find Roland, and you can converse about love. _In French_."

Arthur's hand falls away, and he raises his chin. "You know what?" he growls. "Maybe I'll do that."

"Fine", Merlin hisses, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Fine", Arthur hisses back, and lets the door slam closed behind him.

***

What follows are a few terribly miserable days.

Merlin has to sleep alone in his big, new bed, which is suddenly far less comfortable now that no-one is there to share it with him; and some of the servants look at him as if he's going to turn them into a lizard if they do as much as breathe the wrong way. (Which is ridiculous, really, because Merlin doesn't do that anymore. He has learned the hard way that people turned into lizards like to hide under furniture or in cracks in the walls, and it's just so much trouble to catch them before they run too far and are damned to a reptilian existence forever.)

Even Gwen is acting strange around him these days, nervous and worried, to the point where he snaps at her and sends her away, which just makes her look at him with even more concern.

If he wasn't so unhappy, he'd feel sorry for the knights, who always suffer the most when Arthur and Merlin are fighting, returning from the practice field bruised and limping day after day. More than one of them have cast pleading looks in Merlin's direction that he does his best to ignore.

The only one who doesn't seem bothered by their fall out is Roland, who apparently smells his chance now that his rival is out of the way – and Merlin might not be talking to Arthur, but that doesn't mean he stopped watching him, and so he can't help but notice the way the squire stands even closer now when he fastens Arthur's armour, resting his hands on the king's back for far longer than necessary.

Merlin resists the temptation to turn him into a slow-worm – he has a feeling that he really wouldn't care if this one would disappear into a crack forever, and he is sure that Arthur's already bad mood would not improve if Merlin spirited his squire away.

It's not as satisfying as it should be, though, to see that Arthur is apparently still completely oblivious to Roland's advances, and clearly just as unhappy as he is himself. The third day after their fight finds Merlin contemplating ways to apologize without making it sound as if the whole thing was his fault (because it wasn't, really), and on the fourth, he's desperate enough to not even care about that anymore.

He is standing in a field when he comes to this conclusion, collecting medical plants that need to be picked after dusk, and it's late by the time he walks through the gates of Camelot, so he decides to go see Arthur first thing in the morning.

He is still thinking about what he's going to say when he opens the door to his rooms, ready to fall into bed (even knowing he will most likely spend the night tossing and turning, like he did the nights before) – only to realize that someone is already in there. In the dark, he can't make out the figure curled up under the covers, and for a moment, he wonders if maybe it's Sir Gareth, who can't seem to take no for an answer – that is, until a very familiar and grumpy voice says: "_Finally_. Where have you been, for God's sake?"

The covers move, revealing his king's tousled head, and Merlin lights a candle with a flick of his wrist, before he drops the plants on the table so that he can put his hands on his hips.

"_Arthur_. What are you doing here?"

Arthur shrugs, and in the light cast by the candle Merlin can see his sheepish frown. "I couldn't sleep in my own bed", he says awkwardly. "It's – occupied."

"Occupied?" Merlin asks incredulously. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Well ..." Arthur says hesitantly. "There's someone in it."

Merlin raises his brow.

"Oh, fine", Arthur bursts out. "It's – it's Roland. I mean, I came back to my rooms, absolutely unsuspecting, by the way, and there he was, in my bed! And he was naked!"

He sounds so put out that Merlin has to hide a smile. "So what did you do?"

"What do you think?" Arthur gestures widely. "I ran, of course! Fortunately, he must have fallen asleep while he was waiting for me, so I could sneak out before he noticed I was there."

Merlin coughs. "Let me see if I got this right. You find your squire naked in your bed, and you don't take him to task, or simply throw him out, but run and hide, instead? In _my_ room, of all places?"

Arthur snuffles. "Well", he says. "I didn't want to deprive you of your chance to say _I told you so_."

Merlin smiles. "Oh, I would _never_, sire", he says, wide-eyed, and then he grins, happily, and it feels like a heavy weight is taken off his chest. "But remember – I told you so."

"Haha", Arthur says sourly, a soft smile betraying his words. "Now that you've had your fun – are you finally coming to bed?"

Merlin barely takes the time to strip off his clothes – impatiently tugging on his coat, cursing the new robes that are so much more complicated than the simple attire he wore as a servant – and then he finally slips between the sheets, Arthur already reaching out to pull him in, just as impatient.

They tumble together, fumbling desperately, pressing up against each other from head to toe, legs entwined, feet bumping. Merlin laps on Arthur's skin, tasting sweat and hay and smoke, thinking that he doesn't know how he managed to live a week without this; and maybe Arthur feels the same, because when Merlin drags his tongue along his throat, biting down where neck meets collarbone, Arthur moans and arches up, offering his skin for Merlin to devour, clutching him even tighter.

***

The next morning, Merlin keeps Arthur in bed as long as possible, nipping and licking his way up and down his body. Arthur is a mess, tousled hair and swollen lips and bite marks all over, but he doesn't seem to mind, just smiles indulgently when he looks down to inspect his own ravaged chest.

"Aren't you a possessive one?" he says, ruffling Merlin's hair fondly.

"Well, you didn't really leave me a choice", Merlin replies, mildly reproachfully, playfully pushing into Arthur's touch like a cat demanding to be petted.

"I really should get up", Arthur says wistfully, fingers still gently scratching Merlin's scalp, and Merlin exhales a heavy sigh.

"If you must", he says, but he climbs out of bed before Arthur does, donning a long, wide shirt and puttering around the room on bare feet; and when Arthur finally drags himself out from under the covers, Merlin makes him sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling at his feet with a bowl of scented water.

He takes his time washing him, and by the time he is finished they are both hard again; but Merlin steadfastly ignores the blatant signs of their arousal and starts to dress Arthur instead.

"You never took so much care in these things when you were still my servant", Arthur remarks, sounding amused, when Merlin buttons up his coat with steady, gentle fingers.

Merlin pats his chest and smirks. "That's because you were a spoiled prat back then."

Arthur raises his brow. "And now?"

Merlin drops his hands and looks away. "Now I want to show you that nobody could ever care for you as well as I do."

Arthur sighs and puts a finger under Merlin's chin, guiding it until they are face to face. "Merlin", he says, "you know that I need a personal servant. But if you really want me to lay Roland off …"

"No", Merlin says quickly, shaking his head. "No, it's alright." He tugs at Arthur's collar, index finger caressing the purple, vivid bruise in the bend of his neck. "I don't think he's going to proposition you again."

***

Merlin still follows Arthur to the practice ground, if only to watch Roland take Arthur's armour off later and see him blush furiously when he discovers the bruises marring the king's chest.

After that, Roland can't look Merlin in the face for a week; but he does keep an appropriate distance while attending on Arthur, so this little detail is something Merlin is more than willing to overlook.

Especially since Roland hardly gets the chance to dress Arthur anymore – Arthur has stopped leaving early after spending the night in Merlin's rooms, and gladly lets Merlin serve him; and Merlin takes pleasure in all the little things he loves doing so much more now that they aren't part of his job.

And if bathing and dressing Arthur suddenly takes a lot longer than it did before – well, nobody is interested in broaching this topic with their king.


End file.
